The Killing Sense E-Book

Sam Blake

• Herausgeber: Corvus
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 461

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

***THE INSTANT IRISH TIMES No. 1 BESTSELLER*** 'A riveting, textured, glamorous crime thriller set in contemporary Paris - magnifique!' ANDREA MARA 'If Dan Brown was a woman, her name would be Sam Blake' EDEL COFFEY Danger is closer than you think... Single Mum Kate Wilde has escaped an abusive marriage and hasn't had a holiday in years, so when she wins a five-day trip to Paris to learn about perfume - in a competition she can't remember entering - it's a dream come true. Or is it? Almost as soon as she arrives, Kate's ex texts with evidence that he's in Paris too. Kate can feel she's being watched, and she's sure someone has been in her apartment. Then she discovers that there's a killer in the city focusing on red headed women like her. And his kill count is rising. Who should she fear the most? All Kate's senses are on alert. But can her instincts keep her safe? Praise for Sam Blake: 'Griptastic' Liz Nugent 'A high-octane thrill ride' Catherine Ryan Howard 'Packed with twists' Woman's Own

Leseprobe

Also by Sam Blake

Little Bones

In Deep Water

No Turning Back

Keep Your Eyes on Me

The Dark Room

High Pressure

Remember My Name

The Mystery of Four

Three Little Birds

For young adults:

Something Terrible Happened Last Night

Something’s About to Blow Up

First published in Great Britain in 2025 by Corvus, an imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd.

This paperback edition published in 2025 by Corvus.

Copyright © Sam Blake, 2025

The moral right of Sam Blake to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

No part of this book may be used in any manner in the learning, training or development of generative artificial intelligence technologies (including but not limited to machine learning models and large language models (LLMs)), whether by data scraping, data mining or use in any way to create or form a part of data sets or in any other way.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities, is entirely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

E-book ISBN: 978 1 80546 016 9

Corvus

An imprint of Atlantic Books Ltd

Ormond House

26–27 Boswell Street

London

WC1N 3JZ

www.atlantic-books.co.uk

To you, my reader, with huge and heartfelt thanks for making it possible for me to tell stories and call it my job.

Prologue

AT FIRST HE thought it was a ball. A football, or maybe a basketball. Trapped at a curved junction between the narrow underground tunnels, it had created an island of debris coated in the foul brown-grey sewer slime that coated the walls, his waders and thick rubber gloves.

It was only as Jean-Claude got closer, one foot placed carefully in front of the other, steadying himself with both hands on ancient brick walls that arched just above his head, that he began to realise it wasn’t.

Directly behind him, his colleague Robert grumbled about Jean-Claude’s walking pace, at the rats that scurried beside them, at the fact he had to bend slightly in these tributaries, that they seemed to get narrower as he aged. Jean-Claude wanted to stop him with a reminder that the rats were their friends. If the rats ran, it was a sign that they should, too: that there was a gas escape or some other threat, like the crocodile that had once been found living down here. But he was too busy grumbling to listen.

And when Jean-Claude stopped sharply to take in what was ahead of him, Robert collided with him, and swore.

When he’d started work for the Wastewater Treatment Department, aged seventeen, Jean-Claude had constantly gagged at the smell of raw sewage down in the tunnels. He’d been sure, then, that he would become accustomed to it. Now forty-odd years later, with only a few more days left until retirement, his stomach still turned as he trekked through the warren of passageways that wove beneath the city, each one mirroring the boulevard above, each marked with a cheery blue enamel sign.

Right from the first breath of the day – thankfully, it was February; it was always worse in the summer – when he lifted the heavy manhole cover and the escaping stink of the sewers blended raucously with the morning alert of freshly baked bread, Jean-Claude felt his stomach react. Sometimes he felt as if it was taunting him, the smell. This city was all about scent. It billowed from the doorways of boutiques, snatched your attention as a woman passed in the street, grabbed you by the throat as you turned a corner: the astringent tang of tobacco; the earthy perfection of garlic; the sunshine of oranges; the beckon of coffee. Paris was a city of scent.

And now, in a tunnel below a narrow lane off Rue de Rivoli, the unmistakable shock of rotting flesh met Jean-Claude at the exact moment that the light from his head-torch cut through the darkness, falling on the brackish water swirling around what he’d thought was a football, and now realised was coated with thick, matted, red hair.

Chapter 1

KATE WILDE FELT her phone vibrate in her hand as she headed down the wide Eurostar carriage, looking at the numbers below the luggage rack for her seat. Glancing at the phone screen, she saw it was Hanna texting her again.

When will you be home mummy?

Pausing, she felt a dark hole opening in her stomach. In all of Hanna’s almost ten years, this was the first time they had ever been apart; she wasn’t sure who was more anxious. And leaving her for the whole of the February half-term week, when they were both at home, just made Kate feel even more as if she was the world’s worst mother. She’d had no idea when she’d trained as a geography teacher how vital her job would become to managing as a single parent, but the guilt was still there.

As she found her seat, battling the sick feeling, Kate tried to channel her sister Orna’s words: ‘You haven’t had a holiday in years, except for going home – and Galway isn’t exactly Marbella. You’ve never won anything before. Not like this. It’s a gift, Kate. You have to go.’

Orna got things right – she always had done. She had to be right about this, too. And she’d offered to take her niece while Kate was away. She’d never wanted children, but she’d approached the prospect of entertaining a nine-year-old as if it were a competitive sport. Hanna was going to have a fabulous fun-filled week that she’d remember forever.

Spotting her seat number, Kate pushed back a stray strand of red hair and lifted Orna’s hard cabin case into the overhead luggage rack. She sank into her seat, divided from the one opposite by a table, and looked at her phone screen. Anxiety curled inside her like wisps of smoke around paper as her fingers flew over the keyboard.

Just 5 nights. Be good for Auntie Orna. I love you sweet pea xx

Kate unhooked her handbag from her shoulder, checking again that her passport was safe and her train ticket was tucked inside it. She looked at it quickly: arrival at Gare du Nord was 15.47. She checked her phone again. It was 12.25. In six minutes she’d be on her way to Paris.

Her best friend Trisha’s laughing face flashed into her mind, glowing after a cross-country run, her school gym kit splattered with mud. Kate felt tears prick at her eyes; she wished again that she could reach out and touch her, to hug her and tell her everything would be OK. After all these years, she was finally on her way to the city they’d both dreamed of.

At thoughts of Trisha, Kate could feel her emotions surging with memories of being sixteen, guilt threatening to engulf her. She knew what separation felt like, and the thought of not seeing Hanna for a week had brought it all back. She tried to focus on the carriage and the people getting on the train around her. Since she’d started planning this trip, in the back of her mind the prospect of being away from her daughter had felt as if someone was slowly tearing a piece of paper in two. Not any paper, but the page of a diary inscribed in Trisha’s sloping teenage hand, with wishes and hopes and dreams of true love.

And today was Valentine’s Day, of all days …

But this wasn’t like before. Kate would come home, and she and Hanna would turn over to a fresh page and write their own list, and all those dreams would come true.

It was only for five days …

Trying to still her thoughts, Kate looked out of the carriage window at the platform beside her. Although she couldn’t see it from here, at the end of the station the iconic clock ticked on, Tracey Emin’s neon pink ‘I Want My Time With You’ scrawled below it as if it had been spray-painted over the station’s red-brick Gothic arches. Above her, the monumental glass roof of St Pancras station curved like a force field. It might only be the start of spring, but it was a beautiful morning, crisp and cold.

The moment Kate had been contacted with the news that she’d won a prize, in a competition on Facebook that she couldn’t even remember entering, and that it was an expenses-paid week in Paris, Orna had been even more excited than she was.

Paris.

It had jarred Kate for a moment, the lid she’d kept tight on her memories of Trisha suddenly thrown open, her sadness and failure like a wound that had never healed.

It had to be a sign, though – a sign that her life was changing, that things were getting better. If this had happened at any stage in the past, she couldn’t have even considered it, but now she could. Now she needed to go to Paris. This trip was a chance to fulfil her promise and finally lay her ghosts to rest.

And Orna was right: what were the chances of it falling during the February half-term?

Kate had been so sure that it had to be some sort of scam that she initially hadn’t taken it seriously at all. But Orna had checked everything out and it was all real. And the company running the promotion had sent the Eurostar booking details through straight away. Orna had even checked to see if the seat they’d booked was taken, just to be sure that Kate didn’t get to the station to discover it was all some sort of hoax.

So here she was.

Chapter 2

AGATHE DELEVINGNE LEANED her elbows on the black counter top at Café Rodolphe and looked out of the window at the briefly empty pavement running along Rue des Corbeaux. It was grey outside, the sort of all-pervading grey that only February could bring, the stone of the narrow cobbled street almost the same colour as the ancient walls of Le Marais and the narrow shops that crowded like customers at a market stall along its length.

They’d been flat out since they’d opened up, but there was a brief lull now before the next wave of lunch-goers arrived. Oumar was out the back, clearing tables and chatting to the old woman with the plaits. They invented stories about her past when things were quiet: everyone had a story, Oumar said. Sometimes he sounded like her Uncle Gabriel. He was always looking for a story. But right now there was only one story that Agathe wanted to hear, and that was what had happened to her flatmate Sandrine to make her go so silent. It was as if she’d fallen off the face of the earth.

Agathe closed her eyes for a second, her empty stomach turning over again. She couldn’t eat when she was this worried. Whichever way she looked at it, something had to be wrong. It wasn’t as if she was Sandrine’s keeper – they only shared an apartment – but she’d never vanished like this before. She’d been chatty and excited when Agathe had last seen her the previous Wednesday morning, but now it was Tuesday. She hadn’t been home over the weekend, and she wasn’t answering her phone.

By Sunday night, Agathe had started looking at Sandrine’s Instagram and following her friends, so she could ask if they’d seen her. She’d been up half the night, but the response had always been the same: Pas ici; Haven’t seen her. And a few: Who is this?

Agathe bit her lip. They were right to ask. Was she being irrational? Sandrine was twenty-six, and had a proper job for a high-end property sales company. She didn’t have to report her movements to Agathe, or to their other flatmate, Roland. They had different friends; Agathe didn’t even know where Sandrine’s parents lived. Her father and brother worked in Toulouse, for Airbus, but Agathe had no idea how to reach them in such a huge company.

It was bright and cheery inside the narrow café, its mirrored wall reflecting back the display of pastries and the colourful teapots on the shelf behind her. But looking out of the door, Agathe felt the gloom of the day seeping in under the threshold like a bad smell.

The day before – Monday – the girl she’d spoken to at Sandrine’s office had confirmed that Sandrine had had a viewing appointment in their diary for a penthouse the previous Friday. On Friday evening, Sandrine had emailed to say there would be a follow-up viewing on Monday, and asked them to take the property off the website. That had struck Agathe as a bit strange. Sandrine was always telling her that a deal wasn’t done until the ink was dry, so why remove it from sale after a first viewing?

Agathe pushed her fringe out of her eyes as she went over the conversation she’d had with the receptionist. Sandrine hadn’t come back in, had kept the keys for the next meeting with the prospective buyer, so the girls in the office hadn’t actually seen her since Friday morning, when she’d collected the keys before her appointment.

In the reflection on the wall opposite her, Agathe caught sight of her highlighted blonde hair, messily piled on top of her head, the roots black. It needed a wash, and she’d gone too heavy with her black eyeliner this morning, trying to distract attention from the plum-coloured circles that came with a lack of sleep. A bit late to notice that now. She ran her finger under her long lashes, softening the kohl, the row of earrings running up her ear catching the light.

Agathe heard the dishwasher below the counter gurgle as it began its final cycle. She tapped her phone screen, looking to see if Sandrine had replied to any of her messages in the few minutes since she’d last checked.

Still nothing.

She texted Roland again, to see if he’d heard from her. He should be in university by now, if he wasn’t asleep and skipping his lectures. The hours he needed to put in for economics didn’t suit him at all. Both he and Sandrine were night owls, up until the early hours talking, or partying, or, in Roland’s case, vanishing with his spray paints to create street art down narrow lanes or beside the Seine. It was a miracle he hadn’t been caught, but Paris wasn’t like other big cities where there were surveillance cameras everywhere. In Paris there were hundreds of hidden corners. Nobody wanted to be watched going about their business – there had been an outcry about improving CCTV on the streets in advance of the Olympics next year.

Worry gnawed at Agathe. Had Sandrine gone out on Friday night and met someone? But surely she’d have come home on Sunday, if only to change, especially if she had that follow-up client viewing on Monday.

Where on earth could she be?

The coffee was scalding hot, black, the aroma awakening all the memories as he cradled the cup in the palm of his hand.

Her voice high and piercing, screaming at him, making him freeze, the trickle of urine running down his leg. Then the pain of her cigarette on his arm, the smell of burning flesh. The heat of the coffee on his young skin as he fell backwards, crashing onto the tiled floor.

‘Your fault, you made me trip.’

He’d been hypnotised, he knew now – hypnotised by the pain and the fear and the need for her attention.

And then her red hair, falling over her painted face, her perfume thick and strong like a drug as the guilt overcame her and she picked him up, clutching him tightly, as if only he could save her. He closed his eyes, breathing in the memories.

Her red hair, her scent.

He needed it again. That release. The moment when all the pent-up tension flooded out of him as she held him to her breast.

That special moment.

The one this weekend had been a disappointment. That’s what came of spontaneity. What had looked too good to be true, was. But he supposed the practice was always good.

This one would be different. He glanced again at the photograph, the image clear on his phone. She was laughing, her hair tumbling around her like a waterfall, the child beside her unmistakably her daughter. As if they were poster girls for the Redhead Convention.

Her red hair.

He breathed in slowly, imagining her earthy scent, like ambergris. And then the mist as he sprayed her with the perfume: flowery layers of summer – bergamot, lily of the valley and jasmine. Each tone altered by her pale skin into a scent that was unique to a redhead. The thought of it made him dizzy with desire – the scent of her skin …

It was all set up. She’d be here soon.

Chapter 3

GLANCING AROUND HER as the Eurostar carriage filled, Kate could hardly believe it: she was finally going to Paris. She’d got this far, had got her life back on track, and now it was time to make good on her promise to her best friend. She could almost hear Trisha’s laughter, bright like the sunshine lighting the platform beyond the train.

They had been so close, but then Kate had let her down. Her grief and guilt were like a stone in her shoe, constantly rubbing.

The time they’d sneaked off to the cinema in Galway to see Amélie had been the start of it. The same day that their ephemeral, vaporous teenage dreams had condensed into something magical and real on the huge screen had been the day Trisha had had her first headache. Kate could still see the rich colours of every scene, feel their joy as they’d left, arm in arm, mesmerised by thoughts of working in a café in Paris, of puzzles and photo albums, of artists and finding true love. Of a future.

But nothing had quite gone as they’d expected. Trisha hadn’t realised anything was really wrong for another six months. Six months in which their plans formed and they’d mapped out a year abroad between school and university; six months in which her cancer had become terminal.

Kate’s phone pinged again.

Hanna had sent her a photo, her strawberry blonde hair gleaming in Orna’s kitchen lights. Despite having so many golden tones in her straight hair, a complete contrast to Kate’s own Titian curls, they were unmistakably mother and daughter.

Hanna had Kate’s blue eyes and button nose, the dimple beside her full mouth, and – thankfully – very little of her father. Part of Kate’s heart shrank at the thought of Erik, echoes of the storm whistling in through the cracks if she let them.

When she looked back, Kate felt as if she’d been trying to get away from him from the day they’d met. She’d been twenty-six, still finding her feet living in London, in a new job – they’d only been dating for a year when she’d discovered she was pregnant, and foolishly she’d been sure he would change. They were both from Catholic families; marriage was the next logical step despite the feeling, deep down, that she was making a terrible mistake.

But Erik had charmed everyone – her parents, her friends. Only Orna had seen through him. Kate didn’t think she’d ever forget the pressure of Orna’s hand on her arm as she’d turned to walk into the church. ‘You don’t have to do this …’

Kate hadn’t wanted to listen then. Orna had everything and Kate had wanted part of that. Orna was the lucky one; she was the one who’d refused to go to university, instead leaving home to find her fortune in London, getting a job in Selfridges that had taken her to womenswear buyer, and now her own shop. With marriage to the wonderful Declan, investment banker, thrown in.

The only things thrown into Kate’s marriage had been suspicion, constant fear and too many trips to A & E.

It had taken her the next six years, but Kate had finally got away from him. She’d found herself a job, and left the women’s refuge for a room in a shared house. Eventually she’d found a fantastic landlord and a tiny attic flat. Last summer, the day they’d moved downstairs, gaining a bedroom and those huge windows – so much light after the darkness of the attic – had felt like a turning point, a new start.

And now she was going to Paris to fulfil her long overdue promise to Trisha. Things were changing, everything was going to be OK.

Kate’s phone pinged again. This time the message was from an international number.

Tell Hanna I miss her, I want to see her.

Kate froze, old fears ripping through her insides. She stared at the message for a few moments, part of her mentally picking up her child and running as fast as she could.

Erik.

It had to be.

How had he got her number? He was working away, his access to Hanna scheduled, and he knew he could only contact them through her solicitor.

Why was he texting her now?

Chapter 4

AS AGATHE LET the café door fall closed behind her and stepped out into the narrow street, she pulled her phone out of her backpack. Oumar had seen how distracted she was and, insisting that he’d be able to manage the rest of the lunch crowd, had let her finish her shift early. University, and her afternoon lecture, were across the river, but first she wanted to call her Uncle Gabriel.

The bad feeling Agathe had about Sandrine’s absence had grown exponentially. Was she being over-anxious? If Agathe had suddenly got the opportunity of a holiday, would she think to let Roland and Sandrine know? They shared an apartment but they led different lives.

She needed to talk to someone – someone who knew about missing people, and who knew her well enough to be honest with her. Calling the police seemed like a massive overreaction. Sandrine probably wasn’t even missing.

Her uncle, Gabriel Beaudin, would know whether she should be worried or not. He’d always been straight with her, and he was editor of Paris Heure, the morning tabloid that everyone read on their way to work. He always knew what was happening ahead of everyone else, so if there was bad news – Agathe didn’t even want to think about that – he’d be the most likely to know and, more importantly, to tell her.

Her uncle picked up after one ring. ‘How’s my favourite niece? Steeped in the history and architecture of our beautiful city, I hope. How long before you come to work for me properly and put those research skills to the test?’

Agathe almost rolled her eyes. He said this every time she called.

‘You know I’m not a journalist—’

Her uncle interrupted. ‘I know, I know, you want to work in some dusty archive, preserving the past.’ Agathe could tell he was smiling. ‘How can I help? You need money?’

‘No, I …’

‘Every student needs money. I keep telling you, there’s a job waiting for you here that will pay double what that café pays. I was going to call you today, actually.’

Agathe had worked in the Paris Heure office for him over the summer, juggling her hours at Café Rodolphe with a few days each week in the newsroom. Even at night it hummed with conversation: discussion on what they would print, what they could print, and when. In her mind’s eye Agathe could see him sitting at his huge, untidy antique desk, his silver hair slicked back, craggy face creased in a frown. His office was on the second floor in the corner of the building, its windows overlooking the Seine snaking through the city.

He was going to call her? What about? A sick feeling of worry filled her stomach.

‘I’m good for money, it isn’t that.’ Agathe took a breath, conscious her tone was sharper than she’d intended. He must have picked up on it. At the other end she heard a rustling sound, the squeak of the unoiled wheel on his chair rolling back, and then the gentle closing of his office door.

‘Go on, what’s the problem?’

‘It’s my flatmate, Sandrine. She didn’t come home over the weekend. I haven’t heard from her since last week and no one has seen her. I’m probably getting anxious over nothing, but I wondered if you’d heard anything, about … anything.’

She couldn’t say it.

Glancing up at the graphite sky, clouds clotted with rain about to fall, Agathe began walking quickly along the pavement, her phone to her ear. She bit her lip. She was being silly. He was going to tell her not to worry and it would all be fine.

But there was silence at the other end. Not good. Like the giant clocks on the Musée d’Orsay, their glass faces overlooking what felt like the whole city, you could almost hear the cogs clunking around as Gabriel Beaudin ruminated on an issue.

She was pretty sure the silence was him working out what to say.

A moment later, as if the hands on the clocks had come together, he started to speak, his voice low.

‘This goes no further. I have heard something, but Carlier wants us to keep a lid on it for now. He’s worried about scaremongering, creating a panic.’

Her uncle had been at school with Pierre Carlier, who, as Prefect of Paris, was one of the most powerful government representatives in the country. They’d always been close, and had stayed in touch as their careers progressed, developing a symbiotic relationship that benefited them both. Carlier understood the power of the press.

‘What?’ Agathe’s voice was little more than a whisper.

‘This isn’t Sandrine, OK – definitely not. But some workers found something in the sewers. A body part, shall we say.’

‘What body part?’ Agathe could have screamed at him. What body part, and why were they not saying anything? It was his job to report …

‘They don’t know how long it’s been there … not that long, anyway. But I don’t think it’s Sandrine.’

‘But it’s female?’

‘Yes, it’s female. And we know she didn’t die from natural causes. The criminal investigation division are trying to identify her before anyone is alerted to the find.’

Agathe couldn’t answer, her thoughts racing. She felt physically sick. How could he know it wasn’t Sandrine? What part had they found?

‘The thing is, there are some similarities to a previous case, from 2012.’ He sighed. ‘It’s … Well … I have Maxim checking the archives for missing persons.’ He cleared his throat. ‘For missing heads, specifically.’

‘Heads? But what …?’

‘We don’t know. That’s the point, but there could be other cases – similar … Well, it’s hard to know, but these two we do know about were young females with red hair. And they were both found in the sewers.’ He sighed. ‘Carlier is worried that, even – what … eleven years apart? – it might not be a coincidence. Only a tiny percentage of the population has red hair. It’s very rare. And … Well, the sewers.’

‘More than two? A serial killer?’ Agathe couldn’t believe she was saying it. She let out a sharp breath that she hadn’t realised she was holding, and at the same time stopped walking abruptly. She turned to look into the candle shop she’d halted beside, the window display filled with Valentine’s roses and pink paper hearts, multiple flames flickering at the top of a huge cream candle. Leaning on the dove-grey wooden surround, she could suddenly see her own reflection like a ghost above the flame. She was pale, her foundation barely concealing the shadow of acne, her grey eyes made larger by the heavy black eyeliner. She looked down at her chunky Chelsea boots and pulled her coat around herself as he continued.

‘Perhaps. But there seems to be this big gap between killings, which is why I’m telling you. That’s what I was going to call you about. Maxim doesn’t have your research skills – or patience, come to that. I have him out now talking to his sources, but I was thinking you could go through the archives, here and at the university. We’ll pay you, obviously. Your library archives include material from the local and regional papers, stuff my people can’t access easily. We may need to go back a good few years, but …’ He lowered his voice. ‘Listen, I’m sure Sandrine is quite safe.’

Agathe closed her eyes. ‘I don’t know if I should call the police – or her parents. Assuming I can find them. I don’t know what to do.’

‘Call the police and report it. I’m sure Sandrine is fine. She’s very sensible, from what you’ve told me. And she doesn’t have red hair.’

Chapter 5

‘SORRY, MAY I?’

Her focus on her phone, Kate looked up abruptly, surprised by the male voice suddenly beside her in the carriage. Only half concentrating, she smiled, and its owner hoisted a leather holdall onto the luggage rack above her head. Slipping off a dark cashmere overcoat, he rolled it carelessly and thrust it in after the bag.

As Kate’s thoughts tumbled, the train began to roll smoothly out of the station. She quickly typed out a message to Orna.

Erik’s back, he wants to see Hanna.

She hit send, gripping the phone as the man sat down opposite her.

Would Erik try and take Hanna again?

The last time, he’d sworn to the judge that Kate had been mistaken, that he’d only wanted to show his daughter the sea. That his proximity to the ferry port was a coincidence.

They were moving, it was too late to get off.

The man who had just arrived in the carriage was a few years older than her – around forty perhaps, his blond hair cropped with military precision. His face was weathered, a cleft lip and striking pale blue eyes giving him a worn look that seemed at odds with his crisp navy suit and oxblood tie, a matching silk square protruding from the top pocket of his jacket. He hooked the handle of a walking stick onto the table between them.

Kate tapped her phone nervously on the table. How long would it take her sister to respond?

Sitting across from her, the man reached inside his jacket pocket to retrieve his own phone. Catching her eye, he smiled, nodding a greeting as he dipped into his jacket again for a sleek black spectacle box. He was wearing a heavy watch, the steel bracelet laced with gold links, a rotating bezel marked with the compass points in gold. It looked old, and incredibly expensive, and as if it tracked every possible permutation of time.

Time. Why did Kate always feel as if there was a clock ticking somewhere, that she had to run and keep running to beat it?

She had felt that she was getting on top of things, more in control. But now … At her worst, her classroom had been the only place where she’d had any sense of herself, any faith in her abilities to function. Teaching had been the only part of her life that Erik hadn’t infected. ‘Coercive control’ the counsellor had called it. And it had crept in so slowly, she hadn’t noticed until the first time he’d hit her.

Suddenly desperate to talk to someone – anyone – to stop her racing thoughts, Kate looked across the table and smiled. ‘Have you caught this train before?’

If he was surprised she was starting a conversation, the man opposite didn’t show it.

‘Fairly often. I’m in Paris on business every few months. However, this trip is a mission for my aunt. Great-aunt, I should say, although she hates that.’

Kate immediately had an impression of a very elegant older woman, taking tea from a china cup in Fortnum’s.

He paused. ‘It’s a beautiful city, but …’ He grinned ruefully. ‘The Parisians can be a little impatient – and not just with visitors.’

‘Really? Well, I’m not just sightseeing. I’m going to do a course – on making perfume.’

Was that too much information? She just needed to keep the conversation going or she knew her mind would begin to spiral.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘That sounds interesting. Parisians might not be the friendliest people, but there’s lots to see. Are you staying somewhere central?’

She went for the least detailed answer she could. ‘Somewhere near Le Marais.’ It was a big area. Near wasn’t in.

As if he hadn’t noticed her deliberate vagueness, he continued. ‘That’s a beautiful part of the city – medieval, tiny twisting streets.’ He paused. ‘There’s a cheesecake shop there. It’s quite an experience.’ His mouth twitched in a smile. ‘My aunt is more worried about the impact of a visit to Paris on her waistline than on mine.’

Kate nodded, her mind darting to her phone again. The train was picking up speed, sidings rushing past. Concrete and steel, rubble, graffiti. She should have got off. But it felt as if Erik had timed his text deliberately so she couldn’t have done. He couldn’t know she was going away, could he? The thought made her stomach churn.

Kate’s phone suddenly buzzed, vibrating on the table between them.

All OK, will keep her safe. Promise. Relax and enjoy your week. Don’t let him spoil this too.

Kate felt less shaky as the next text arrived.

Enjoy Paris. DO NOT WORRY XXX

Thank God for her sensible big sister.

Orna was right – she’d look after Hanna. Erik couldn’t know where she was; his text arriving now had to be a coincidence.

‘Something important?’ The man’s voice cut through her thoughts. What had he just said? His job, his aunt.

‘It’s fine.’ Kate laid her phone down on the table. Orna knew about Erik; it would be OK. Kate forced herself to relax. Erik had sworn he’d kill her after the last incident, but he couldn’t find her in Paris. ‘And your mission for her – your aunt?’

‘I have to go to Christie’s to inspect something … a perfume bottle, actually. She doesn’t trust photographs. She wants to be sure it’s genuine, and undamaged.’

‘You’re going all the way to Paris to look at a perfume bottle?’ Kate’s tone betrayed her incredulity.

He flushed slightly. ‘I know. It sounds mad. She was all set to come herself, but her doctor told her that she can’t travel at the moment – apparently. I’m starting to think that she was intending for me to come all along.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘It’s a wedding present for my niece. My aunt was given the same one when she was married in 1939 – it was the only thing that survived when their house was bombed during the Blitz. She’s convinced it will be a lucky charm.’

He didn’t look convinced himself. ‘Honestly, I’m not sure it will be, but my aunt’s a hundred and three and very insistent.’

‘I see.’ Kate paused, trying desperately to focus on this moment, in this carriage. She needed to distract herself, to keep thoughts of Erik, the flashbacks, firmly at bay. Who would go all the way to Paris to buy a perfume bottle?

‘Goodness …’

‘Indeed.’ He cleared his throat, turning his watch bracelet as if it was a habit. ‘I suppose there’s a romanticism to her finding one for sale in Paris. It’s a city of scent. And indeed, the perfect place for a course on perfume.’ He smiled warmly.

Kate let out a breath, releasing some of the tension in her chest. ‘I hope it will be. I won it in a competition that I can’t even remember entering, something online. But my Instagram is always full of ads for hotels in Italy and mountain treks.’

‘Our phones do seem to listen to us rather, don’t they? My aunt says the same thing, but she’s a lot more tech-savvy than I am.’ He paused. ‘Daniel … Daniel Langton.’ He held out his hand across the table.

Maybe Erik had found out about her trip through social media? The thought jumped suddenly into her head. She only used Facebook and Instagram, and she was very careful about what she posted, but was that why his text had come now, just as she’d got on the train?

Automatically Kate shook his hand, her mind only half on the carriage. ‘Kate.’

‘This prize sounds rather wonderful, a definite benefit to being online.’

Was it? Suddenly she wasn’t so sure. ‘I didn’t believe it at first, but it all seems to be real. And the competition covers everything – an apartment for the week, all my travel …’ She paused. ‘They even booked my seat.’

Chapter 6

‘GOOD AFTERNOON, MATEY, so what’s this all about?’ Lucien Arnaud let the imposing purple door of Le Loup Gris swing closed behind Maxim as he stepped inside the hallway. The air was chill – the building always felt hollow somehow when the nightclub was closed.

‘Need somewhere discreet for a chat. This was the only place he’d agree to come to.’ Maxim ran his hand into his highlighted fringe, ruffling his hair where it had been flattened by his motorcycle helmet, now slung over his arm. ‘He can say he was making enquiries if anyone wonders what he’s doing here.’

His boss, Gabriel Beaudin, had been insistent that Maxim follow up on the discovery in the sewers ASAP, but trying to organise a meeting at short notice always brought complications.

Inspector Raymond Travère of ‘La Crim’, the criminal investigation division of the Préfecture de Police, couldn’t afford to be spotted speaking to a tabloid journalist, and he was a man who liked his comforts. The idea of sitting in a car on a piece of freezing waste ground hadn’t filled him with joy. It hadn’t been high on Maxim’s wish list either, especially as he didn’t own a car, and persuading Gabriel Beaudin to lend him his ancient treasured Mercedes, and then ensuring it didn’t get so much as a scratch on it, was more than his job was worth.

Then Maxim had thought of the club.

Lucien grinned and indicated Maxim should follow him down into the heart of his seven-floor empire. He was wearing pale tan suede brogues with narrow-legged chinos, his shoes silent as he ambled along the black and white tiled passageway, Maxim’s steel-tipped cowboy boots, in contrast, clicking off the marble. Lucien glanced down at them and shook his head, his ongoing despair at the state of Maxim’s wardrobe evident in his face. At least this time he didn’t comment on it.

‘This place is like a morgue until the staff come in at seven, so you’ve got the place to yourself. The chefs are here, but they’re down in the kitchens. They won’t disturb you. And I can buzz open the side door. Discretion is assured for all our clients.’

Maxim caught Lucien’s grin. The underground entrance for celebrities and anyone who might be visiting them was a closely guarded secret, allowing guests to discreetly enter and leave Paris’s hottest nightspot.

‘Can we use your office?’

Lucien narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. ‘Danger someone might walk in on you, and if they found the door was locked all hell would break loose. They’d think I was being held hostage. We have a small private dining room on the second floor, right beside the lift. I’ll bring some foie gras. We’ve got a Côtes de Gascogne that goes beautifully with it.’

‘Sounds great. And he’ll like that – much appreciated.’

Lucien nodded as they reached the lift doors and punched the call button. ‘I’ll show you up.’

‘He a friend of yours, this Lucien Arnaud?’ Inspector Travère sat down in an elegantly upholstered dining chair and picked up the wine Lucien had left in the cooler. The table was oval, polished to a gleam, and filled the centre of the room. Travère didn’t look any healthier than the last time Maxim had seen him, his jowls florid, belt straining under the weight of his stomach. He had to be nearing retirement.

Despite their differences, they’d developed a good relationship in the years Maxim had worked for Paris Heure. There were times when it suited Travère to let information out, and it was easily deniable when it appeared in a tabloid.

It was like a dance. A dance that, today, Maxim hoped, would be the quickstep.

Maxim nodded. ‘We were in university together, same rowing club. We’re tight.’

Travère made a humphing noise and poured himself a generous glass of wine, then leaned back and looked around the room. Huge, mildly erotic nudes hung on deep grey painted panels, the plaster ceiling dripping with gold.

‘I remember this place when his mother owned it. She was something. Voice like velvet. She could hold the whole room when she went on stage. Never been another like her.’ Maxim nodded obligingly. But he wasn’t here to talk about Lucien’s celebrity family background. Before he could say anything, Travère continued. ‘Tragic, what happened. To go like that in the Métro, straight under a train. Horrible.’ He paused as if he was expecting Maxim to comment, but then continued before he could say anything. ‘I always wondered about it, you know … An accident, too much …’ He tapped his glass and shrugged. ‘Or perhaps she didn’t intend for it to be so final. She was very dramatic, known for it, and her moods …’ He shrugged again. ‘Artistic, I suppose. There was talk of a national day of mourning.’

Maxim cleared his throat. ‘Awful, but Lucien has made a huge success of this place.’ He picked up his empty glass and reached for the bottle. ‘What can you tell me about the recent find? It’s your investigation?’

Travère took a long sip, nodded, and screwed up his piggy eyes. ‘Nasty one. Clean cut, though, someone who had practice.’

‘Any idea who she was?’

‘This is off the record?’

‘Of course, strictly between us. If you can give me a direction, I can look elsewhere for the information – join the dots, so to speak.’

Travère nodded. ‘It’ll take a while to see if there’s a DNA match on the system, but she had a tattoo behind her ear.’ He picked up a knife and, helping himself to a round of bread, scooped a generous lump of the pâté onto it. Maxim watched as he took a huge bite, and a moment later, another. He picked up his napkin as he chewed and wiped his fingers, obviously savouring the contents of his mouth.

Maxim edged forward on his chair. He didn’t have all day for this. He had things to do.

‘A tattoo?’ He looked at Travère, willing him to divulge a little more.

Travère finished preparing his next mouthful, and continued. ‘Unusual – stars and the like, some symbol. We’re searching the files to see if there’s a match, obviously.’ He paused significantly. ‘Pathologist thinks the remains have been frozen.’ Maxim’s eyebrows shot up as Travère looked at him, nodding slowly. ‘That’s the problem. The one before, Bénédicte Écuyer, hairdresser, disappeared in 2009 and we found … Well, not much apart from her head, as it turned out, but her remains didn’t turn up until 2012.’

Picking up his own glass to take a sip, Maxim looked across at Travère, part of him wondering how he could be so relaxed, talking about body parts and eating at the same time. But he knew the answer: Travère was a career policeman; he’d seen worse.

‘There was evidence that her body had been frozen, too?’

Travère bit into his foie gras, speaking with his mouth full. ‘Don’t have her body to know about the rest, but definitely the head. And there was very little decomposition, so it hadn’t been down there long when it was found. Of course, Carlier’s going nuts. It’s fairly obvious that these two must be connected, and the last thing he wants with all the Olympics preparation is a load of press about a crazed killer going on some rampage in Paris, sticking women in freezers and cutting off heads.’

‘Women with red hair.’

‘Exactly.’ Travère looked at Maxim. ‘Carlier wants the story buried for now, but … You know. If I was a young woman with red hair …’ He shrugged.

‘You’d want to know.’

Travère raised his eyebrows, nodding silently.

Chapter 7

WHEN AGATHE GOT home from the library, it was starting to spit freezing rain that hit the back of her neck like shotgun pellets. Hunched against the gathering dusk, she punched in the door access code, the lights in the stone hallway flicking on as she swung open the street door. It was only just after four, but she hadn’t been able to concentrate, and now she had a ton of reading to do.

Her arms folded tightly, Agathe waited for the lift. Her uncle was right: when she got up to their apartment, Sandrine would have the heating switched on and coffee on the stove and her magazines strewn across the living room table.

Agathe had called the police the minute she’d got off the phone to her uncle, but the detective she’d spoken to had been less than helpful. He’d taken the details, told her to check with Sandrine’s parents, and told her to call back in the morning if there was still no sign. He’d as much as said that Sandrine was an adult and could make her own decisions. ‘People go missing for lots of reasons, all the time. Maybe she doesn’t want to be found right now.’

Yeah, right.

But she could only check with Sandrine’s family if she could track them down. Surely that was something the police could do?

On their landing, Agathe put the key into the deadlock, willing it to be on the latch and to turn easily.

It didn’t.

She wrestled with it. It was sticky, despite her constant requests to Roland to fix it. It was his parents’ apartment, so technically he was the landlord, but he was too busy being creative to actually worry about anything practical, like faulty taps or draughts. It usually fell to Agathe to sort things out. The front door was the one thing she kept forgetting.

Inside the narrow tiled hallway, Agathe could feel the silence in the apartment, heavy with disappointment. She switched on the light quickly, banishing the darkness as she paused for a moment to listen. But there were none of the sounds that Sandrine usually made. No humming from the bathroom, or the strains of classical music from the living room. Or even the guttural sounds of sex that sometimes slipped under her bedroom door when she thought they were all out.

She and Roland had a non-exclusive relationship, but there was open and there was open.

He’d crashed around the house for a week after the last time it had happened. And then had gone and covered a subway with a terrifying image of a vampire that Agathe was still trying to work out the message behind. His anger had made him sloppy, and the police had called the next evening. Agathe shook her head as she headed down the narrow passageway to the living room with its kitchenette corner. Sandrine had given Roland an alibi that night – it was as close as he’d ever come to arrest. But they were watching him, Agathe knew. With all the interest in his work that Paris Heure was generating, they wanted to make an example of him.

And they’d gone to her uncle’s office to find out how the newspaper seemed to have a photographer who got to each mural location before the paint was even dry. The public were loving the cat-and-mouse hunt for the mysterious street artist, Requin. His identity was a secret, but his tag – an open-mouthed shark – was becoming one of the most recognisable in the city, much to the anger of the authorities. Street art was a huge part of the cultural scene in Paris. Loud, like a revolutionary voice, it came from below the surface – but only in the right places. Roland was still on the fringe, enjoying the danger, but the media coverage was helping build his career, and her uncle was enjoying being one step ahead of everyone. Win-win. As long as it stayed that way.

Agathe could see Roland’s bike was leaning against the hallway wall, the Senegalese flag above it, assorted designer trainers scattered below.

No sign of Sandrine’s leather boots.

Agathe flicked on the lights in the living room. The only sound was the methodical ticking of a clock Roland’s parents had installed in the vague hope that their only son might join the rest of the human race and function during normal daylight hours.

From what she’d seen – and Agathe had only known him for a year or so – Roland was just as focused as his high-flying parents, but in a different way. He wanted to be Banksy – maybe Banksy was Black and French, too; no one knew – but he would do whatever it took to achieve that dream. Which basically meant spending a lot of time cycling around the city in the middle of the night, his spray cans hidden in a bright green Uber Eats insulated pannier that he’d acquired specifically for the purpose. The police might stop a cyclist, but they weren’t likely to check to see if he was delivering noodles or pizza – or in Roland’s case, street art so stylised its tag was hardly needed.

Swinging her bag onto the counter, Agathe could see Roland’s spray cans were scattered across the smooth glass table. And the sink was still full of washing-up.

Sandrine hadn’t been home.

Chapter 8

ROLLING HER CASE across the worn granite slabs of a grand hallway, Kate followed the woman who had met her at the door of 32 Rue des Corbeaux to the foot of a magnificent curved stone staircase. A tiny, rather ancient elevator nestled beside it, looking like an ornate iron birdcage.

Her conversation on the train had calmed her a bit – hearing about Daniel Langton’s world had put her own problems into perspective.

‘Royal Engineers. Afghanistan and the like. Invalided out. Bit of a tangle with a landmine.’

‘Oh …’ Her eyes had flicked to the walking stick handle latched onto the table.

‘Occupational hazard, as they say. Now I work in patents, mainly.’ He’d grimaced. ‘Patents aren’t very interesting but, as my aunt says, it’s very, very safe.’

Safe was what she needed. What everyone needed. Safe was what pressing charges against Erik had given her. She’d been terrified that he’d twist things, that nobody would believe her, but the judge had been unimpressed with his excuses. And his sentence had bought her the time she needed to get back on her feet.

Leaving Gare du Nord in a taxi, Kate had been slightly wowed that everywhere looked so … well, French. She didn’t know why she was surprised. Perhaps it was because she’d taken the train: one minute in London and the next … here. As she looked out at shopfronts and ranks of motorbikes and bicycles lined up at the sides of the streets, electric scooters leaning dangerously into them, she felt as if she’d landed on a movie set. The streets had got narrower as they’d neared her destination, the buildings still elegant, ornate ironwork balconies running like ribbons around them.

And now she was in one of those haughty period buildings, climbing a polished stone staircase that swept up from the ground floor, an oak banister smoothed with time guiding her up.

The woman who met her at the door had introduced herself as Céline Arnaud. She lived downstairs. And Céline spoke English, so Kate’s hasty excursion with Duolingo to polish her school French would have to wait to be tested.

‘Here we are.’ Arriving on a broad landing, Céline crossed to open the panelled apartment door, painted an elegant grey, locks clunking back as she turned a series of keys. She pushed the door open and gestured for Kate to go inside. ‘As I said, if you need anything, just ask, but you should have everything. I’ll show you around.’

In front of Kate, across the narrow parquet hall, a set of double doors stood open to an enormous living room with a white-painted dining table at one end. The sofas, a coffee table and the half-moon side tables between the windows all appeared to be slightly too small for its proportions.

‘Goodness, it’s huge.’ Surprised, Kate glanced back at Céline, who was running what looked like a golden apple charm along her necklace, unashamedly assessing her.

Céline smiled by way of reply. ‘Lucien always says we should move up here and let downstairs instead, but I’m a psychologist. My patients need access from the street.’

Her English was perfect – the slightest hint of an accent, as if she’d learned to speak it in America, or watched a lot of American films. But she looked very French, her raven hair long and straight, dark eyes watchful. She wore a silk scarf tied cleverly over a navy polo neck sweater, the gold necklace contrasting with the midnight cashmere. Tailored jeans were finished off with perfect navy ballerina pumps. She had to be in her mid-forties, but she had that indeterminate age and casual elegance Kate had always envied in European women.

Kate wasn’t sure who Lucien was, but she guessed from Céline’s tone that he must be her husband.

As if she suddenly remembered that she was showing Kate the apartment, Céline stopped studying her and moved to her left along the corridor, past several doors, opening one further down. ‘This is the master bedroom, with an en suite bathroom inside. There are two more bedrooms and a master bathroom as well.’ Continuing down the narrow corridor, Céline moved catlike, her soft-soled pumps silent on the wooden floor. ‘And the kitchen is here.’

At Céline’s invitation, Kate stuck her head inside the narrow galley. Everything was white; a window at the end was as wide as the room itself.